with a huge grin on his face. The rout was on.
By the time the top of the fifth came, the Stingers had a 10-0 lead and it was no longer a competitive game. Matt had immersed himself in the detailed process of keeping stats. âHill, youâre going in at second for Archibald,â Coach said. Matt handed the clipboard to Kevin, grabbed his glove and ran out to second.
Although he tried to be casual about it, Matt stole a glance into the stands and waited for his mom to realize that he was finally in the game. A smile broke out over her face and she waved at him. âLetâs go, Mats!â she yelled.
Matt lowered his head. It was the nickname his mom liked to use whenever she was excited but it was kind of embarrassing. He had become âMatsâ while he was in kindergarten. He had begun signing his name that way because he was a huge fan of the Toronto Maple Leafsâ captain Mats Sundin. The name had stuck.
Manning was such a weak team that Matt didnât get a single ball hit to him at second base. In fact, nobody was touching anything being thrown by Andrew McTavish, who was likely the second best pitcher on the South Side team behind Steve White.
Meanwhile, the Stingers continued to roll on the offensive side of the game. Matt got his first at-bat in the bottom of the fifth, taking four straight balls as Manningâs starting pitcher faded fast. He managed to score too, when McTavish drove him home with a sharp single to right.
In the bottom of the sixth, Manningâs coach called a time-out. He walked to the mound to talk to his pitcher. The two spoke briefly before the lanky pitcher lowered his head, put the ball in the coachâs hand and walked slowly into the dugout.
Seconds later, a towering replacement trotted out toward the mound. Matt recognized this kid. It was Kenny Forshaw. Forshaw stood at least six-foot-five and had been a terrific post player for Manningâs basketball team. But he had never seen Forshaw play baseball, let alone pitch.
The plate umpire gave Forshaw his warm-up pitches and Matt couldnât help but think the kid needed them. The Manning reliever resembled a gigantic, gangly spider as he uncoiled from his windup. He was throwing smoke, but he was all over the place. High one pitch, low the next, inside, outside. Everywhere but over the plate.
Matt watched as Jake battled Forshaw at the plate. The Manning pitcher was giving his buddy nothing decent to hit but Jake was showing a good, patient eye. The count was three and one as Forshaw wound up and delivered a fastball, this time down the middle. Jake swung, but he was a fraction late getting around on the blur of a pitch, lifting a high foul down the right field line. The Minuteman fielder chased it down, putting Jake out for the first time that day. Manningâs dugout, silent until now, exploded in cheers.
Dave Tanner was next up, but he didnât fare any better. It seemed to Matt that he wasnât standing in there quite as confidently as usual. Who could blame him? Forshaw was getting faster, and wilder, with every pitch. Tanner went down, swinging weakly at a ball that was well outside and high.
Matt gulped. He was next up. As he walked toward the plate, he thought his knees would give out. This kid was throwing so fast. What if he got hit?
The first pitch whizzed downward from Forshawâs hand and ended up somewhere around Mattâs ankles. He managed to hold his ground and resisted the urge to swing. It was a ball. He was ahead in the count.
Forshaw wound up again. The ball catapulted toward Matt. All Matt could tell was that it was headed inside. He ducked backward so quickly that he fell to the ground. The kids in the Manning dugout laughed. Matt got up, shaking himself off. Afraid of the ball, he thought to himself. Everybody else must be thinking the same thing.
Matt was determined to stand in there this time. Forshaw delivered another hard pitch inside. Matt swung, as much
By the time the top of the fifth came, the Stingers had a 10-0 lead and it was no longer a competitive game. Matt had immersed himself in the detailed process of keeping stats. âHill, youâre going in at second for Archibald,â Coach said. Matt handed the clipboard to Kevin, grabbed his glove and ran out to second.
Although he tried to be casual about it, Matt stole a glance into the stands and waited for his mom to realize that he was finally in the game. A smile broke out over her face and she waved at him. âLetâs go, Mats!â she yelled.
Matt lowered his head. It was the nickname his mom liked to use whenever she was excited but it was kind of embarrassing. He had become âMatsâ while he was in kindergarten. He had begun signing his name that way because he was a huge fan of the Toronto Maple Leafsâ captain Mats Sundin. The name had stuck.
Manning was such a weak team that Matt didnât get a single ball hit to him at second base. In fact, nobody was touching anything being thrown by Andrew McTavish, who was likely the second best pitcher on the South Side team behind Steve White.
Meanwhile, the Stingers continued to roll on the offensive side of the game. Matt got his first at-bat in the bottom of the fifth, taking four straight balls as Manningâs starting pitcher faded fast. He managed to score too, when McTavish drove him home with a sharp single to right.
In the bottom of the sixth, Manningâs coach called a time-out. He walked to the mound to talk to his pitcher. The two spoke briefly before the lanky pitcher lowered his head, put the ball in the coachâs hand and walked slowly into the dugout.
Seconds later, a towering replacement trotted out toward the mound. Matt recognized this kid. It was Kenny Forshaw. Forshaw stood at least six-foot-five and had been a terrific post player for Manningâs basketball team. But he had never seen Forshaw play baseball, let alone pitch.
The plate umpire gave Forshaw his warm-up pitches and Matt couldnât help but think the kid needed them. The Manning reliever resembled a gigantic, gangly spider as he uncoiled from his windup. He was throwing smoke, but he was all over the place. High one pitch, low the next, inside, outside. Everywhere but over the plate.
Matt watched as Jake battled Forshaw at the plate. The Manning pitcher was giving his buddy nothing decent to hit but Jake was showing a good, patient eye. The count was three and one as Forshaw wound up and delivered a fastball, this time down the middle. Jake swung, but he was a fraction late getting around on the blur of a pitch, lifting a high foul down the right field line. The Minuteman fielder chased it down, putting Jake out for the first time that day. Manningâs dugout, silent until now, exploded in cheers.
Dave Tanner was next up, but he didnât fare any better. It seemed to Matt that he wasnât standing in there quite as confidently as usual. Who could blame him? Forshaw was getting faster, and wilder, with every pitch. Tanner went down, swinging weakly at a ball that was well outside and high.
Matt gulped. He was next up. As he walked toward the plate, he thought his knees would give out. This kid was throwing so fast. What if he got hit?
The first pitch whizzed downward from Forshawâs hand and ended up somewhere around Mattâs ankles. He managed to hold his ground and resisted the urge to swing. It was a ball. He was ahead in the count.
Forshaw wound up again. The ball catapulted toward Matt. All Matt could tell was that it was headed inside. He ducked backward so quickly that he fell to the ground. The kids in the Manning dugout laughed. Matt got up, shaking himself off. Afraid of the ball, he thought to himself. Everybody else must be thinking the same thing.
Matt was determined to stand in there this time. Forshaw delivered another hard pitch inside. Matt swung, as much
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